"My Eyes Have Seen Your Salvation" (Luke 2:22-40)

A Boy’s Praise

I was running at the park in a stew of my own worry. Maybe it was work that had me wrapped around the axle. Or maybe it was a relationship. Or maybe I’d just woken up on the wrong side of the bed. I can’t remember the specific reason, but it hardly matters. When I find myself embroiled in self-concern, the object of obsession makes little difference. Whatever it is, it narrows my perspective. It makes the world smaller. And that small world–it revolves all around me.

I was on a narrow path and could see ahead of me a father and his child, no more than five years old. As I begrudgingly shifted off the path to make way, I saw the child point up to the sky. By God’s grace, I looked to where he was pointing and saw a hawk in majestic flight, swooping toward the ground. “Look, daddy!” I heard the boy cry. “What is it?” I kept running, and so I did not hear the father’s response. What echoed in my mind was the boy’s wonder and enthusiasm, so contrary to my numb self-centeredness. I had been closed off to the world. But the boy was not. He was open and curious. And his spirit was contagious. It opened me up! I wouldn’t have looked up if he hadn’t pointed. I wouldn’t have seen the hawk in its majesty. I would have kept running under a cloud of self-centered worry.

Is it any coincidence, I wonder, that today I cannot remember what small concern had me captive but I can remember the boy and his hand pointed upward and the hawk swooping down? It is as though that moment reframed the world as so much bigger than my passing concern. That moment restored my heart to God. What I remember is not the passing concern but the bigger truth of God’s presence and love.

Bear with me if it seems I am blowing this out of proportion—but “my eyes [saw] God’s salvation!” If salvation is nothing more than saying a prayer and getting our ticket punched for heaven, then yes, I am quite out of line. But isn’t this ticket-to-heaven, pie-in-the-sky salvation actually rather feeble and impoverished? It’s all about another time and place and makes no difference to the here and now. On the other hand, Jesus proclaims a much grander salvation. The kingdom of God has arrived! There is growth and healing and abundant life now, for we are God’s beloved children.

The conceptual root of salvation is simple: safety. Salvation means we are safe in God’s love. That day in the park, when I was wrapped around myself, I felt fear, not safety; I saw only threats, not promise. But then a little boy praised God—sure, he didn’t use theological language, but his voice was pure praise and wonder—and my eyes were opened again. No longer was I wrapped around myself. I was alive with wonder, returned to a much larger world. I was returned to God.

Not a Spectacle, but a Seed

Simeon’s eyes were already open. He was not wrapped up in himself, as I was in the park, but rather he was “looking forward,” Luke tells us, “to the consolation of Israel” (2:25). Looking forward. Which is to say, looking outside himself. Trusting in something larger than himself. Is it a coincidence that the Holy Spirit rests on him and reveals to him the coming of the messiah? His heart is open.

What really strikes me about Simeon, however, is the salvation that he sees. Just an infant. I don’t know about you, but generally when I hear the word salvation, I think of grand spectacles, sweeping gestures, sudden interventions. But as Jesus will later say, “The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed, nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There it is!’” (17:20). The kingdom of God is more speck than spectacle. It’s a little thing, ignored by people looking for greatness. Elsewhere Jesus will compare it to a seed. Something nearly invisible, and yet bearing all of God’s love and goodness.

What does Simeon see in this helpless infant being presented to God in the temple? Do his eyes reach into the future? Does he see Jesus on the cross? Does he see Jesus embracing lepers and eating with tax collectors? Or do his eyes only see a baby–and yet that’s enough? Suddenly everything clicks, that, yes, God’s love for us is like a parent’s transcendent love for a child. And this love is the glory of Israel and the light that will lead everyone, Israel and the nations alike, to God.

I don’t know what Simeon saw in Jesus. I only know he saw a baby—and that was enough.

The Nunc Dimittis:

An Evening Prayer

Simeon’s short song of praise quickly became an early Christian classic known as the nunc dimittis, which is the Latin for the beginning of the song, “Now you are dismissing.” Throughout the centuries, followers of Christ have recited it as part of their evening prayers. This prayer practice is a wonderful reminder that God’s salvation is happening on a daily basis, and we are invited to bear witness to it. In my own practice, I find the prayer to be a healthy challenge. In particular, the assertion, “My eyes have seen your salvation,” invites me to reflect on what has happened during the day and in what small, inconspicuous ways God’s salvation has been revealed to me. I am invited to look for seeds of God’s kingdom. Perhaps it was a boy pointing to a hawk, drawing me out of myself and restoring me to God. Perhaps it was a quiet look of sympathy from a friend. Perhaps it was a moment of vulnerability from someone else that allowed for a genuine connection to be made.

Looking Back on the Year

As we find ourselves on the last day of the year, I find myself wondering if the nunc dimittis, Simeon’s song, might not invite us to reflect similarly on 2023. Most of the time, we wave farewell to a year with a tongue-in-cheek “Good riddance! Let’s hope the next year’s better.” To be sure, every year will have its own share of difficulty. But our faith in Christ invites us to look for the seeds of God’s kingdom growing in our midst. Our faith invites us to give thanks and praise God. Not necessarily with a hymn or theological language. It could be as simple as pointing to a hawk and saying, “Look!”

Or it could be pointing to stories of redemption in the disaster relief work of God’s Pit Crew. Or stories of healing—and by healing, I mean something much more than a physical cure. I mean the strengthening of a soul through the love and support of others, as I see happening wherever a community gathers in prayer. (Here I find myself thinking of Donna’s regular reports about Hudson, a baseball teammate of her grandson.) Paul tells us to give thanks “in everything,” so we’re invited to look even amid evil and loss and difficulty for seeds of God’s kingdom. I have a close friend who lost her father recently and suddenly to cancer. There is no way I can call that event itself good. It is suffering and it is loss and I do not believe it is God’s will. But in that event, I have seen a host of people surrender their own time and personal ambitions in order to support my friend and her family. If like Simeon I am looking forward to God’s consolation, then here I catch a glimpse of it. In the selfless love on display, I catch a glimpse of God’s kingdom and am inspired to live more like this in my everyday life.

A People of Good News

In our Old Testament lectionary text today, Isaiah insists, “As a garden causes what is sown in it to spring up, so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring up before all the nations” (Isa 61:11). God’s kingdom springs up through praise. In our Psalm lectionary text today (Ps 148), the psalm declares that all of creation sing God’s praise—the sun, the moon, the mountains, the trees. The not-too-subtle implication is that, as part of God’s creation, we are invited to join their song of praise.

Why is praise so important? Here I speak from experience. It is infectious. It is how the Spirit catches on from one person to the next. When I was running through the park under a cloud of self-concern, the boy’s praise for the hawk broke me out of the prison of the self and restored me to God and a world of beauty and goodness and possibility.

Psychologists tell us that rage and anger naturally attract our attention more than anything. The news and social media know this all too well. Outrage sells. Left to its own devices, I’m afraid the world moves toward division and violence.

But the good news of this Christmastide is that we are not left to our own devices. God’s kingdom is already among us. Often in small, unspectacular ways, whether that’s a baby in a manger, a man disposed of by the empire on a cross, a boy pointing to a hawk. And the good news is that God’s kingdom grows when we tend to it. When we see it, point to it, praise it, and live in its way of grace and love.

This Christmastide, let us remember: we are a people of good news.

May the world know us so, and may the Spirit be contagious.

Prayer

God of salvation,
Whose love is sown all over the world
In ways that are not observed:
Help us to learn from Simeon
And other faithful followers of your way
How to look for your consolation
And the wonders of your love
…
Make us into a people who trust in your salvation.
Make us into a people of good news.
In Christ, who is with us: Amen.

Embraced by God (John 1:1-5, 10-14, 18)

“Like a Hug from Your Grandma”

“They call it [a] hug,” Scott said.

“And they said you know,
The first time you do it,
You just get this secure feeling.
It’s almost like a warm embrace,
Like a hug from your grandma. …
And they said once you feel that
You crave it constantly.”

Scott, an EMS paramedic in Winston-Salem,
Is talking about his encounters with heroin addiction.
Canadian physician Gabor Maté shares a similar story

From a twenty-seven-year-old woman living on the streets:
“When I first did heroin,” she says,
“It felt like a warm soft hug,
Just like a mother hugging her baby.”

Dying for a Hug

The opioid epidemic in America
Has taken more lives
Than the wars in Vietnam and Iraq combined.
“Every 11 minutes, another life is lost.”

I wonder:
Would it be an overstatement to say that
Our world is dying for a hug—
Literally dying for a hug?

Christ Is in Our DNA

“In the beginning,” begins the gospel of John,
Launching into his version of the creation story,
Which is also his version of the Christmas story.
Poetically he proclaims:
Christ was with God before the world began.
All things life and light came into being through Christ (1:3-4).

Which is to say,
Christ is not only born in Bethlehem.
Christ is in our DNA.
Christ is in everything’s DNA.
Christ is the fabric with which our world is woven.

Jesus, Our Brother

“He came to what was his own,” John says (1:11).
You are his own.
I am his own.
Our neighbor, our enemy, every stranger is his own.

“To all who received him,” John says,
“He gave power to become children of God” (1:12).
Which is to say,
Jesus is our brother.
To receive him as such is to become aware of our divine heritage, our DNA:
We too are children of God!

In the Father’s Bosom

Children need hugs, you know.
(Hugs from grandma are the best, of course—
The finest hugs out there.)

Our brother Jesus knows the importance of hugs.
Jesus, John says, “is close to the Father’s heart” (1:18).
The Greek literally says “bosom.”
Jesus is close to God’s bosom.
Jesus knows God’s embrace.
God’s hug.

I don’t know about you.
But for me, much of the time,
It is hard to feel God’s hug.

“No one has ever seen God,” John says (1:18).
Amen.
It is hard to feel the hug
Of someone you cannot see.

But Jesus feels it.
Jesus knows God’s embrace,
And it is he, John says,
“Who has made [God] known” (1:18).

In other words,
Jesus shows us what it looks like to be hugged by God.
Jesus makes us known what it feels like to be hugged by God.

Learning God’s Embrace

John’s good news is not trite.
He does not say to a world
That is dying for a hug,
Quite literally,
“You’re looking for embrace?
God’s already hugging you,
Can’t you feel it?”

John knows our world doesn’t feel it.
More importantly, God knows our world doesn’t feel it.
The good news of Christmas is this:
Jesus, our brother, does feel it.
“Close to [God’s] bosom,”
Jesus, our brother, feels the warm, eternal embrace of God.
An embrace that brings not death but life.

And the good news is this:
Jesus, our brother, insists that we can know this warm embrace too.
He is here to show us the way (cf. 1:18).
And it is a way. A process. A journey.
A lifetime of learning and growing and transforming.

…

But that’s getting ahead of tonight’s story.
Let’s take it one day at a time—
Just like baby Jesus did.

Tonight, we see Jesus in the embrace
Of an obscure, poor couple, Mary and Joseph;
We see Jesus in the embrace
Of a feeding trough, maybe occasionally nuzzled by curious creatures;
We see Jesus in the embrace, perhaps,
Of the shepherds who come to witness this mystery.

Come, let us embrace him too,
Our brother;
And let us stay with him,
To learn the good news
He has come to share.

Prayer

Jesus, our brother,
Kind and good,
We wonder at this news
That we, like you, are children of God.
…
Tonight, we embrace you,
Hoping that in the days to come
We might know the divine embrace
That gives us the fulness of life
For which we long.
Amen.

Road to Joy (Matt 1:18-2:6)

Real Communion

I remember hearing the door open. Footsteps coming down the hall. I was sitting in my office, about a year into my first pastorate. I knew the sound of those footsteps. Uncertain. Pausing at every door. This was not a church member. This was a solicitor of some sort, snooping around for the office to make their pitch. Finally I heard a knock on the open office door and an inquisitive, “Hello?” I got up and welcomed a young woman wearing a polo shirt and a name tag. She was the new activities director at the assisted living facility across the street, and she was looking for volunteers to help fill the facility’s calendar.

As she was making her pitch, I was mentally scrambling. I had already committed to several other projects and resisted the thought of another ministry venture. But when she finally finished, God’s grace got the better of my resistance, and I heard myself say to her, “Thanks for sharing. I’ll pass along the request, and if we have folks who are interested in helping out, I’ll get back to you.”

Long story short, we did have folks interested in helping out. There was Becky, who loved to sing—and even more loved a captive audience. There was Virginia, a retired missionary to the Congo, who loved to share communion at every opportunity. There was Carol, who was a great pianist but reticent to play in front of large crowds. A small, quiet crowd, however, would be just right. This motley crew would become our memory care ministry. It was simple. We would visit the facility’s memory care unit, sing old, familiar songs, and then share a simple, open communion with anyone who would join us. What had first struck me as an annoyance would become one of my greatest joys in that pastorate.

I remember Richard, a retired Methodist minister who had the most serene face. I don’t know if his calm came from memory loss or something deeper, like years of learning to let go and trust God, but I know that when I am his age, I hope I can be as content with life as he seemed to be. I remember Eva, a woman with Caribbean roots and a vibrant spirit, always smiling, always asking me my name, always asking when we would be coming back. I remember feeling that this was real communion. There was no pretense or posturing in that memory care unit, no striving to keep up with appearances, no ambitions for something bigger or better. There was nothing there but grace. Acceptance. If I looked disheveled, if Becky had gotten the words of a song wrong, if Carol had missed a note on the piano, it wouldn’t have colored the experience one bit. Eva would still ask when we were coming back. Richard would still receive communion with a deep smile that knew more than the mind could ever know.

Matthew, Giddy with Joy

Today we’re looking at Matthew’s telling of the Christmas story. I think Matthew himself is giddy with joy as he tells the story. To be sure, he is not as dramatic or emotional as Luke. Luke has characters breaking into song left and right, Mary singing praise to God, a host of angels singing in the heavens. Matthew tells the story in a more straightforward manner, but he has a unique quirk that reveals his joy. Again and again and again, he points out the fulfillment of scripture. In the first two chapters, he refers five times to the Jewish scripture and claims that the events of Christmas are their fulfillment. A child born to a young woman who shall be a savior called Emmanuel? A fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy (Matt 1:23; cf. Isa 7:14; 8:8, 10). The Messiah’s birth in Bethlehem? A fulfillment of Micah’s prophecy (Matt 2:5-6; cf. Mic 5:2). 

I think of the way that my nephews excitedly point to colorful leaves as a sign that fall has arrived, or snow as a sign that winter has arrived. I think Matthew is doing the same thing with scripture. “Look at all these signs!” he’s saying. “The messiah has arrived!”

A Mixed Response

Matthew’s joy, however, is not shared by the characters in the story, at least not in any way that we can see. Their response is mixed at best.

Let’s start with Joseph, who plans to divorce Mary quietly after he learns of her pregnancy. When the angel visits him in a dream and informs him about Jesus, he responds obediently and takes Mary as his wife. But Matthew does not give us any glimpse into Joseph’s heart. There is no Magnificat, no song for joy, no excited chatter with his loved ones. Joseph does what he is told, but his feelings remain a mystery. Perhaps this veil over Joseph’s feelings—this lack of information in the story—is itself reflective of Joseph’s heart. Perhaps even he doesn’t know how he feels. Have you ever sat stunned after a big revelation, unable to digest it completely?

If Joseph’s feelings remain veiled, Herod’s do not. When the religious leaders confirm that the magi’s reports correspond with the ancient prophecy of a messiah, Herod is afraid. It is an ironic response. What is meant as a promise of good is heard as a threat. What is meant for joy fills Herod with fear. A messiah is a threat to his power and must be eliminated.

Receiving God’s Promise

Matthew’s Christmas story teaches me the surprising reality that joy is not always our first response when God comes good on a promise.

Herod’s example shows that God’ promise may actually strike us as a threat. God’s promise invariably means change, and sometimes we’re quite comfortable with the way things are, even with our own misery or despair. At least we know what we’re facing. It’s common to grow attached to possessions, yes, but also to ideas and to feelings. But I know that the more attachments I have, the more difficult it will be for me to receive God’s promise with joy.

Joseph’s example is a more positive one. At least he responds willingly. He is not ruled by his feelings, but by his faith. I wonder if Joseph’s example shows us that joy takes time. It’s not always immediate. The feeling of joy is not the foundation from which we act, but rather what follows from faithful action. Surely Joseph later shares Mary’s wonder and praise, as he looks into baby Jesus’ eyes and whispers to himself the name the angel proclaimed, “Emmanuel. God is with us.”

When the activities director of the assisted living facility made her request for volunteers, my first response was not joy. Jesus promises that he will be with us in the so-called least of our society, the people pushed to the margins, like the sick and the imprisoned. Are not the residents of a memory care unit such people? Pushed to the margins? Locked away and dependent on others? All of which is to say, I was on the cusp of God’s promise, just like Joseph and Herod were. I had Jesus’ word, saying, “Here you will find me.” But just like Joseph and Herod, my first response was not joy. It was a mixture of doubt and resistance. Joy was not my first feeling. It is what I felt only after I let go of my own kingdom and received what God was giving me.

There are other similar promises that Jesus makes, besides meeting us in the so-called least of our society. Another one that convicts and challenges me is when he says, “Sell your possessions, and give alms,” as a part of his promise that it is God’s “good pleasure to give you the kingdom” (Luke 12:32-33).

The joy of Advent is not the bright and flashy joy of a present we’ve coveted. It’s not something we can unwrap in an instant. It is a deep and genuine joy that takes time, that follows upon responding faithfully to God’s promise rather than resisting it. God promises to meet us in the needful. God promises to give us the kingdom when we give up our own kingdoms. God promises to be with us at tables of grace and acceptance. I can only speak for myself, but sometimes these promises sound more like a threat. They threaten my plans, which generally are oriented around my wants rather than the needs of others. They threaten my sense of the world, my judgments of others, who’s good, who’s bad, who’s in, who’s out.

The good news is that on the other side of the promise, which may be heard as a threat, is real joy—a bigger world, a better life, and beloved community. What I discovered in the memory care unit was a goodness I never would have found on my own.

Prayer

God of good news,
Whose promise sometimes threatens our way of life—
In this season filled with expectations and plans,
Help us to relinquish our attachments,
Which promise happiness but leave us feeling empty
…
May we receive your promised presence
In the needful
And in giving
And in grace,
And may we know the deep joy
Of your kingdom.
In Christ, who is eternally fulfilling your promise: Amen.

Book Review: Creating a Life with God by Daniel Wolpert

I learned as a child to be the perfect student. I have learned as an adult, however, the truth of which Walker Percy spoke. You can make straight A’s and then go out and flunk life. There is a fundamental difference between ideas and their practice, between abstract knowledge and experience. Daniel Wolpert writes with the wisdom of someone who has lived what he teaches. His book on prayer, Creating a Life with God: The Call of Ancient Prayer Practices, is less an explanation and more an invitation. He doesn’t want the reader to get all A’s. He wants the reader to live.

On the surface, Creating a Life with God reads like a primer and manual for a host of prayer practices that have deep roots in the Christian faith. The book progresses thematically from prayer within to prayer without; that is, from prayer that primarily employs heart and mind to prayer that employs the body, connects us with creation, and fosters community with others. This progression is purposeful and hints at a central thesis. Prayer is not just an activity but an orientation, not just a thing we do but a way of being in the world. Seeking God’s will is not limited to a mental exercise. It naturally spills over into all of our life. It progressively changes the way we bear ourselves and relate to the world around us. As Wolpert summarizes, prayer is “a deep conversation with God beginning with communion and leading to transformation”(25). Creating a Life with God is therefore not just a primer or a manual. It is also good news. Its aim is not just that readers will understand and practice these different forms of prayer, but that readers will awaken and respond to God’s presence in all corners of their life.

Wolpert grounds each prayer practice in a historical figure or tradition, not to define and police the practice according to its original bounds, but to remind readers that these practices, despite their seemingly newfound popularity, are ancient and time-tested. For readers who have grown up in the narrow confines of a single tradition, learning about the historical roots of these practices may ease any fears of what seems strange or unfamiliar. A happy side-effect may be the broadening of one’s spiritual horizons. Indeed, Wolpert indicates that prayer is an experience that invariably opens us up. Throughout the book, prayer is likened to eyes opening, hearts opening, minds opening, doors opening, ripened fruit opening and spilling seed—the world opening and being transformed into the kingdom of God.

The specific prayer practices and historical figures that Wolpert reviews are as follows: solitude and silence as practiced by the desert fathers and mothers; lectio divina as practiced by Benedict; the Jesus Prayer as practiced by the pilgrim in The Way of the Pilgrim; apophatic prayer as practiced by John of the Cross and the author of The Cloud of Unknowing; the examen as practiced by Ignatius of Loyola; creativity as practiced by Hildegard of Bingen; journaling as practiced by Julian of Norwich; body prayer as practiced by characters in the Song of Solomon and as reflected in the story of Abelard and Heloise; walking as practiced in ancient pilgrimages and in the labyrinth; praying in nature as practiced by Francis of Assisi; praying materially as practiced by the Beguines; and praying as a community as reflected in the Rule of Saint Benedict. The final two chapters, which are new additions in this twentieth anniversary edition of the book, pertain less to prayer practices and more to particular orientations of prayer. The first orientation is one of fearless imagination as practiced by Brigit of Ireland. The second is one of freedom as practiced by Howard Thurman.

Wolpert’s exploration of each prayer practice is unapologetically practical rather than scholarly. He desires to provide not a comprehensive “history” of the practice but a “story” that conveys the “spiritual essence” of the practice and its practitioners (30-31). I found his approach to be well suited to its purpose, namely to inspire and invite readers to seek God. Wolpert shares a host of stories, drawn not only from history but also from his extensive experience as a spiritual leader. Through story, he relays relatable experiences, illustrating how a particular prayer practice looks in the flesh and cautioning against common misunderstandings and pitfalls. Wolpert rounds out his practical approach by including an appendix with simple, step-by-step guidelines for each prayer practice, for both individual and group use.

One strength of Wolpert’s work is the range of practices that he surveys. I imagine that different readers will gravitate toward different chapters according to their present need or desire. Personally, I found myself drawn to his chapter on praying as a community—“or rather, community as prayer” (162)—in which he speaks a prophetic word about the juncture at which the church finds itself. He lays the groundwork for this chapter in his note on the 20^th anniversary edition, which appears at the beginning of the book. There he observes with interest how contemplative practices have become more widespread at the same time that religious institutions have declined. He points out that when he first published the book, many church leaders had seized on the popularity of contemplative prayer practices. These practices became “the next shiny object that was going to save the church” (20). But they did not save the church, and Wolpert insists that this is no surprise. “[T]he human institutions that call themselves church are not the spiritual reality they purport to manifest” (21). The church does not need saving. As “the mystical body of Christ,” it is alive and well (21). But those who fly its banner might learn something from the communal practice of prayer, not as yet another program to attract new members and save the institution, but as a way of being in the world that brings us closer to God and fills us with life.

Sometimes in a church it is wisely said that we are not called to be successful but to be faithful. Yet moments later, we are worrying again about how to be successful: how to attract young people, what programs are most relevant, which style of worship will resonate with the neighborhood. In his chapter on praying as a community, Wolpert effectively outlines how the church might be faithful again. The subject is how a community might live in prayer together, but the resulting sketch is a healthy spiritual community. Wolpert takes as his guide The Rule of Saint Benedict and suggests that modeling a community on its general themes and principles would yield a “structured environment within which everything points to the mind of Christ” (164). I found this to be a compelling point in the light of our society’s dawning awareness that the means often becomes its own end. Because the institutional church has privileged structures borrowed from politics and business, structures that take for granted the values of power and logic, competition and efficiency, the result is often a collection of well-intentioned individuals who find themselves frustratingly embroiled in power struggles and budgetary concerns.

Wolpert invites readers to imagine an alternative structure for community with prayer at its center. He gleans from The Rule a number of fundamental spiritual principles, including humility, rigorous honesty, a spirit of listening, a certain willingness (or “obedience”) that yields the fruits of the Spirit, mutual service, the practice of hospitality, living simply with few possessions, and of course the intentional practice of prayers, both individually and communally. While Wolpert occasionally speculates what these principles might look like in practice, he wisely refrains from concretizing them into a distinct blueprint from a spiritual community. Rather he offers them as guidelines. Each community would need to apply them thoughtfully “in a unique manner” according to its context (164). “My working hypothesis is that if enough of these themes are consistently applied in some fashion, in some place, then a new type of spiritual community will arise” (164).

Wolpert’s musings on the character of a spiritual community helped me to make sense of my own experience. I have found that communities outside the church walls often seem more spiritually alive than the church itself. Twelve-step groups, L’Arche communities, and ministries to elderly persons and those who live without homes have all impressed me with their vibrant spirit of grace, honesty, and companionship. I am now inspired to look more closely at them alongside The Rule of Saint Benedict, as I ponder new possibilities for the way a church community might share life together.

“The days of church as a center of social and community life are gone,” writes Wolpert, “and so congregations are groping about in the dark trying to decide if they are community centers, old-age homes, spiritual Wal-Marts, or filling stations for the soul. This searching is made all the more difficult by the individualism permeating every aspect of our lives. For people to commit to a life of prayer with a particular community is a huge challenge, maybe impossible” (163). I am inspired to paraphrase Wolpert’s insight in this way. The days of successful churches are gone, and yet congregations keep looking for a way to achieve this end. To live in a community centered on prayer seems foolish and weak. Such a community could not possibly be “successful.” But perhaps that is not the point.

In Creating a Life with God, Wolpert offers readers not only a valuable resource but perhaps even more importantly a call back to “the heart of the matter” (25). I would earnestly recommend it to anyone seeking more life.

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Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the author and/or publisher through the Speakeasy blogging book review network. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.

"Let It Be with Me According to Your Word" (Luke 1:26-38)

“Peace at Last!”

In 2020, I was writing my commentary on Leviticus and Numbers and teaching a course called the Bible as Literature at VCU. I remember when I first heard the news about COVID-19. It was the beginning of Spring Break. At first, the threat seemed distant. I didn’t even think about how it might affect my course. But over the span of just a few days, a distant threat became a serious concern, and VCU cancelled in-person learning for the rest of the semester.

I know that for many people COVID-19 was a serious disruption and caused real havoc. Caring for children at home, working remotely, securing various needs in an uncertain market—these problems were just the tip of the iceberg. And then there was the disease itself, which proved fatal in many tragic cases. I do not want to trivialize these very real problems. But I do want to be honest about my own experience. When COVID-19 first struck and in-person classes were cancelled, there was a little child in me rubbing his hands together with glee and dancing for joy, thinking, “School’s out!” For the rest of semester, all I was required to do was record lecture and grade papers. Now, I am a serious introvert and left to my own devices I will gladly retreat and explore the inner world of thought and imagination. Initially I thought that this turn of events would be beneficial. I thought it would provide a foundation for making some serious progress with my commentary. “Peace at last!” I thought. Gone were so many distractions, from navigating campus to extracurricular and administrative responsibilities. I envisioned myself enthroned at my desk, doing work quietly and contentedly on my own terms.

As perhaps you would guess, the reality was quite different from my expectations. The absence of demands on my time and of the other regular challenges of life did not afford me the peace I thought it would. Inwardly, I was beset with distraction and worry. Without any real interaction, I occasionally despaired about the worthiness of my work. It’s difficult to sustain a sense of purpose when you’re not regularly in relationship and receiving occasional validation.                                           

Peace Outside and Peace Inside

What I learned that semester is that there are different kinds of peace. There is outside peace, which we might describe as the absence of difficulty or challenge. When I hear the words, “All is calm, all is bright,” I’m usually thinking of outside peace. No demands on my time. A quiet environment allowing for rest and relaxation. Harmony with others.

But outside peace, I learned, is very different from peace inside, what we might call spiritual peace. I had a lot of outside peace but very little spiritual peace at the beginning of COVID-19. My heart was all over the place, unsure of its purpose, flitting from one worry to the next.

This week, we’re looking at Luke’s version of the Christmas story. Luke is a dramatist. His version of the Christmas story is the most colorful. It is filled with characters, each with their own backstory, their own hopes and fears. Elizabeth, Zechariah, John, Joseph, Mary, the shepherds, Simeon. But there is one character whom we often overlook: the Holy Spirit. In Luke’s gospel, the Holy Spirit orchestrates nearly everything that happens. In the Christmas story alone, the Holy Spirit fills Elizabeth and Mary and John (even before his birth) and Zechariah and Simeon.

If we’re looking for the difference between outside peace and inside peace, spiritual peace, then Luke is the place to look, because Luke is all about the Spirit. Luke looks within.

The Peace of Mary

Consider for a moment the conditions in which Mary finds herself in Luke’s Christmas story.

First, she lives in Nazareth, a territory heavily occupied by the Roman military. We know that around the time Jesus was born, in the year 4 BCE, the Roman legions descended swiftly and brutally upon an uprising only four miles away in the town of Sepphoris, burning the city and reducing its inhabitants to slavery.[1] The Roman historian Tacitus would later say of the Roman military, “They make a desert and call it peace.” We can imagine that, at the very least, Mary lives in a world of fear, a world that sleeps with one eye open, wary of what the Romans might do next.

Add to that constant background static of fear the news that Mary receives from Gabriel. Even if every word the angel says is true, it only makes life more difficult for Mary on the outside. Now she will know the disgrace that is reserved for infidelity. She will know raised eyebrows and wicked gossip from people who take a small, perverse pleasure in the shortcomings of others.

And the cherry on top is the simple, physical reality of pregnancy. For this will not be a normal, straightforward pregnancy. Toward the end of her term, Mary will be forced to travel on a bumpy road to Bethlehem, where she will then need to deliver the baby in the cramped accommodations of a stable, surrounded by animals and a band of stinky shepherds.

I think it is safe to say that Mary does not know outside peace. The looming threat of Roman violence, the constant buzz of shameful rumors, and the bumps and bruises of a road trip to Bethlehem make certain of that.

And yet, despite all of this, we hear Mary say, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Luke 1:38).

Real Peace Does Not Make Sense

Mary’s peace was true peace. It was not dependent on the conditions around her. She lived in a storm, but in her heart there was calm. Like Jesus in the boat amid the wind and the waves, she was not troubled.

Paul would later refer to this peace as that which “surpasses all understanding” (Phil 4:7)), which I think is his way of saying that real peace does not make sense. It is not logical. Everything in the world around us could be going wrong, yet—illogically, irrationally—there is a peace within.

This week I tried to remember the moments in my life when I’ve experienced real peace. Surprisingly, what came to mind were not moments where I had it easy, as in the early stages of COVID-19. Instead, what came to mind were moments of difficulty. Moments when I made a difficult decision, whether it was finally owning up to my own fault in a situation where I had been avoiding it, or resolving to do something that I knew needed to be done. In all of these cases, there was a moment of acceptance. A moment where in my heart, I knew what I needed to do. I believe God is in all the world, in all things, in all our lives, whether we’re aware of it or not, and so I believe that in these scenarios it was God speaking to me in my heart. And when I finally said, “Let it be with me according to your word,” that was when I knew real peace. It doesn’t always make sense on the outside, where the immediate result might be some challenges or difficult feelings. Real peace surpasses all understanding.

Resignation or Acceptance?

Augustine once suggested that the cynics of his day were to be pitied, for all they do is make peace with their own misery. This idea helps me to understand that acceptance is different from resignation. Resignation is making peace with your misery. When Mary says, “Let it be with me according to your word,” she does not say so in resignation. She does not retreat with a furrowed brow, thinking, “Oh, what a mess I’ve gotten myself into.” No, it’s only a few verses later where we find her singing the Magnificat, her song of praise to God, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior” (Luke 1:46-47).

Mary’s peace is not resignation to a difficult life. It is acceptance of a sacred role. Her peace is an active ingredient in her life, not a passive resignation. It inspires her (she is literally filled with the Holy Spirit). It emboldens and empowers her. She looks forward to life, not away from it. She is strong enough to endure all the difficulties. Why? Because underneath it all is a deep trust. She trusts that in her God is doing something good, something beautiful, something life-saving, for her and all the world.

I see this same peace throughout the ages in all the individuals who have lived courageously in service to God’s love; in people like Francis of Assisi who stood up to a church drunk on power and money and insisted on caring for the poor and for creation, which has often been helpless in the face of people’s greed; in people like Rosa Parks who sat down in the face of cruel inequality and could not be moved.

Peace is a dangerous power. At times, it may take us directly into the storm, but only because God’s love is stronger still and capable of transforming anything. As Gabriel says, “Nothing will be impossible with God” (Luke 1:37).

Prayer

God of peace,
Born in a world of chaos—
Teach us by the example of Mary and countless others
Who have accepted your call
And discovered the peace that surpasses understanding.
Ground us and root us
In your call
…
May we live not from our worries or our expectations
But from the unshaken center of your transforming love. 

In Christ, the peacemaker whose way we follow: Amen.

 

---

[1] Josephus, Jewish Wars 2.68.

What Brings Us Home (Mark 1:1-8)

Lost

When I was about thirteen, my brother and I went for a hike. We were out at a retreat center in New Mexico, not far from Santa Fe. I had hiked before with my family, but this occasion felt special because it was just my brother and me. You feel big, as a child, when your parents trust you with something.

Exhilarated, I bounded up the side of the mountain with my brother. Hiking in the southwest, we would learn, is a bit different than here on the east coast. The trees are not densely packed. Sometimes the trail is less obvious. I’m not sure we ever reached the destination of our particular hike. Somewhere on the way up the mountain, we lost track of the sporadic trail markers. Suddenly, it seemed like there were many trails, like every step was a fork in the road.

We chose this way, then that way, but everything looked the same. Worry crept into my thinking, and it grew with each passing minute. What if we missed dinner? What if we never got home?

My brother reassured me. He began with the obvious. We had started at the bottom of the mountain, so we needed to go down, not up. As we scrambled down the mountain, we would occasionally catch a glimpse through the scraggly trees and rocky outcroppings of the valley below. We never saw the retreat center, but we saw other features that clued us in to our surroundings. At one point we stumbled upon a dried-up creek bed. My brother reasoned that water generally leads to civilization, so it wouldn’t hurt to follow the creek.

Just as the sun was beginning to set, we wandered into what seemed like a more planned environment. It was lusher and greener, and there were flowers spotting the ground here and there. Soon it became apparent. We had reached a cemetery that was on the outskirts of the retreat center. An ironic symbol of life, perhaps—but my fears were relieved. We would not miss dinner.

Mark’s Minimalist Christmas

This Advent, I want to look at how each gospel tells the Christmas story. Each gospel tells it a little bit differently in a way that reveals the gospel’s own personality and reminds us about an important part of our faith. Today we read from Mark and learn a little bit about hope.

You will have noticed in our scripture that there was no mention of Mary or Joseph or the angels or the shepherds watching their flocks by night. Here, it may help to remember that the gospels weren’t written down until a generation or so after Jesus’ lifetime. The gospel writers—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—are recording in writing the sayings and stories that had been faithfully handed down to them from other Christ-followers. Historians tell us that it is likely that Mark had never received a story or tradition about Jesus’ birth.

Even so, Mark’s introduction and opening scene—his “Christmas” story, if you will—are fitting for his style. Mark is the shortest of the gospels. His style is minimalist. If you visited Mark’s house for Christmas, you might find candles in the window or a simple wreath on the door. Maybe even a small tree. But I doubt that it would be filled with sentimental ornaments from years gone by. He is so focused on his central point that he simply doesn’t have the time or interest to decorate it.

Mark’s gospel is perhaps a tonic for our world today, which can get so caught up and distracted in the decorations and festivities. Mark keeps it simple.

“The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ…” (Mark 1:1). Right, so this is about good news. And what is that good news?

The Good News of Home

In a word, home. Mark frames his entire gospel with a prophecy that Isaiah gave to the Israelite people who were living as exiles in Babylon. The prophecy was a simple one: This exile is not forever. Soon, God will bring you home! Get ready. “Prepare the way of the Lord.”

Then Mark fast-forwards from Isaiah to John the baptizer and suggests that John is the final herald of this homecoming. Which is a little odd, perhaps, given that the people of Israel have already returned to their homeland and rebuilt their temple. They’ve been “home” now for about five hundred years.

And yet, if truth be told, their experience is otherwise. Even on home soil, they have continued to live under the thumb of foreign empires: Persian, Greek, Roman. Soldiers wander their streets and do as they please. The temple has been desecrated more than once. This does not feel like home at all.

Imagine entering your home…only to find an armed stranger inside, telling you what to do. 

Hope Is Not a Plan

Isaiah and John the baptizer both proclaim the hope of homecoming. But neither provides a roadmap. There is no blueprint. No plan. No campaign strategy. Instead there are these nebulous invitations. “Prepare,” says Isaiah. “Repent!” shouts John. And it might help to remember that “repent” does not mean groveling in self-accusation and shame. The “pent” in “repent” comes from the same root we see in the word “pensive,” which means thoughtful. Repent literally means something like “rethink,” “think again,” “have a new mind.”

What are Isaiah and John getting at?

To me, it sounds like they’re inviting us to make room for God. To let go of our own plans and expectations long enough to hear what God might be saying, long enough to see what God might be doing.

Part of me wonders if hope does not become a more endangered experience, the more control we have over our lives. What need do I have for hope when I’ve got a secure bank account, a comfortable home, some loyal friends? When I’ve got the world at my fingertips in a glowing screen? When I can buy a plane ticket at the click of a button and be on the other side of the globe in a day?

Of course, even with all the comforts and conveniences we have at our disposal today, it only takes a second for that illusion of control to be shattered and for all our plans and expectations to be thrown out the window. Maybe it’s a bleak prognosis from the doctor. An unexpected bill. A sudden betrayal. For me, twenty-five years ago—and yes, rather trivially—it was feeling lost on the side of a mountain. I think back to that time. What brought me home? It was not a map. It was help. From outside. It was my brother. It was clues from our surroundings that we got one step at a time. It was an openness of heart and mind.

What brought me home—what always brings us home in the end—is hope. Hope is not a map, a plan, a strategy, a calculated expectation. Hope is an openness of heart and mind to help from outside.

As Paul puts it, “Hope that is seen is not hope” (Rom 8:24). Hope never knows the way. But it always trusts that there is a way.

Hope can only walk one step at a time, taking direction each moment.

Returning to the Home That Is Always Ours

The hope that John proclaims to the Judeans in the wilderness is both frustratingly vague and disarmingly simple: “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (Mark 1:1-8). On the one hand, there is nothing in this message that promises the Judeans immediate relief for all their troubles with the Roman occupation. There are no battle plans, no schemes for liberation, no diplomatic maneuvers, no strategies for independence. On the other hand, there is a much greater promise. Remember how earlier we noted that “repent” means “rethink” or “think again.” When your plans have gotten you in a jamb, or when your selfish thinking has hurt others or yourself, you might repent. Well, the Hebrew word for repent has another meaning as well: “Turn around” or “return.” Turn around to whom? Return where?

John’s baptism makes it clear. “A baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” To repent is to know God’s forgiveness. It is to return home. Some people like to make God’s forgiveness conditional upon repentance, as though God is holding out until a person says, “I’m sorry.” But I like to think that God’s forgiveness is as unconditional as Jesus’ eating habits. (Remember how he made such a scene eating with the people whom society had excluded.) I like to think that God’s forgiveness is always there; repentance is just how we open our hands and receive it. Repentance is how we come home to the home that has always and will always be ours.

Hope in the Flesh

I think back one more time to my thirteen-year-old self. And to all the scenarios when we are thrown overboard from the cruise ship that is our plans and expectations. Of course, I like the happy endings best. My brother and I found our way home. A cure is found. A debt is forgiven. But in the darker scenarios, where things do not turn out quite as we would wish, where is God? The good news that John proclaimed in the wilderness is that, somehow, God is there too. Nothing can separate us from God’s love. I think I knew that in a very small way on the side of that mountain. Whatever would happen, I would not be alone. My brother was there beside me. Those who receive a difficult prognosis in the quiet company of a loved one—they are not alone on that hospital bed.

The hope that John proclaimed in the wilderness would soon take on flesh. This hope-in-the-flesh would go to be with people, to show them the way home—or rather, to show them that they were already home, already with God: tax collectors and sinners, the poor, the blind, the lame, Pharisees, Samaritans, centurions. He showed them all that home was not on the other side of a military victory or in some distant utopia—but sitting right there, across the table.

Prayer

O God our hope,
In whose love we are safe:
Help us this Advent
To let go of old ideas and tired thinking,
Of selfish ambition, shame,
Worry, and fear
…
Open our eyes to your coming
That we might welcome Christ
And know ourselves already home.
In Christ, who makes himself our companion: Amen.